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In a flash, he could see Sara’s children. Little moppets with blonde curls and blue eyes, as angelic as her. He didn’t know why that strange thought assailed him at that moment. Or why the vision of her cradling those beautiful children, the ones she deserved, left him feeling a little...wistful.
Sara wrapped her arms round her waist and stared out of the window as the pilot announced their descent. ‘I’m used to the press.’
He wasn’t sure she knew what she was letting herself in for, but he’d shield her from the worst of it for a little while. Before the storm truly took hold and they were ripped along in its maelstrom.
‘There’s no press like the tabloids in the UK. The Lauritanian media are collared and caged by comparison. At home they roam vicious and wild, free to write what they want, and they love writing about me.’
‘I know. Your exploits are popular.’ Something inside him stirred. He liked it that she’d researched him, but loathed what she might have found. Most of it was an exaggeration he did nothing to discourage, because it suited his purposes. Only the most cynical tried to get close to the Debauched Duke. ‘Why a bachelor? No children? They seem like normal things to want for most people.’
Here was that hoary little chestnut which got some women stuck, no matter his brutal honesty with them. Convinced they could change him. He clenched his fists. Flexed his fingers. These were the questions he’d been asked by more than a few women who’d looked at him, pretending to be wide-eyed and innocent, when he could see the hopeful gleam shining in their eyes, revealing their desire to become the Duchess of Bedmore. Though Sara seemed to have lost any gleam altogether, sitting opposite him looking tired and washed out. Not at all hopeful. He suspected that her enquiry was guileless, with no hidden agenda.
‘The world does not require any more Astills,’ he said.
His father had wanted to make the namegreatagain, and Lance was witness to where coveting greatness could lead. To his shame, in his early twenties, thoughts of his destiny and inheritance had been heady ones. Whilst he eschewed it now, when he’d left Lauritania and returned to England he’d caught up with friends like himself, with power and privilege, wielding it whichever way they wished. He hadn’t been true to himself or the promises he and Rafe had made at school. He’d succumbed to the allure of wealth and the benefits of privilege. It had almost entirely corrupted him.
Until Victoria.
She’d suffered, being only a tool used along the way to further his father’s quest for reflected greatness—the true victim of his parents’ schemes. Now, it didn’t matter that his father was dead. His life’s quest was to tear down what had been built and toss the tiny pieces to the four winds.
‘Why? Yours is one of the oldest families in the country. You have a long history, some of it...eccentric. But doesn’t that mean anything?’
He tugged at the cuffs of his shirt. He supposed it was hard for her to understand after a life devoted to duty and expectation. He was the perfect person to show her. Still, the prick of what he suspected was disapprobation stung. Lance wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if he usually cared what anyone thought.
‘It meansnothing. I’ve told you what a pack of wastrels we all are. Remind me to take you to the portrait gallery at Astill Hall and tell you some of the stories. It’ll make your hair curl.’
‘I don’t need my hair any curlier, thank you.’ Sara reached to her wrist and took a hair tie from round it, restraining all those glorious strands. The band left a slight mark on her pale skin. He reached out to smooth it away, then stopped himself.
‘I thought you said your father had rehabilitated the family?’ she asked.
Lance swallowed, to equalise the pressure in his ears. With him not wanting children and Victoria being unable to have them, no matter how hard she’d tried, the earth would be washed clean of their blood. There’d be nothing lefttorehabilitate.
‘Nothing can take away the stain of all those black sheep. The best thing to do is put us all out of our misery. But enough about me.’ Their interactions weren’t meant to be about deep and meaningful questions. For her, at least, it was about injecting some fun into her life—and he knewallabout fun. Still, on that front, they had work to do. ‘Our first job is to get you some clothes. Then we’ll take the helicopter to Astill Hall.’
She’d like that. Shopping, then a sightseeing flight over London on their way to the country, keeping her away from the capital, where the worst of the tabloids lurked. At least in his ancestral home he could maintain some control and privacy. Hell knew when he’d become so considerate. It was an unfamiliar sensation.
Sara smoothed her hands over the exquisitely tailored but dreadful black trousers. He wanted to burn every black item of clothing she owned. Dress her in jewelled colours so she couldn’t pretend to grieve any longer.
Sara shook her head. A rogue curl fell free over her face. She tucked it behind her ear.
‘I don’t have any money for shopping.’
‘I do.’ Lance shrugged. ‘No fiancée of mine is ever going to pay for her own things. It’s one of the perks of being with me, even in a sham engagement.’
None of the women he’d been with whoweren’this fiancée had complained about his generosity. In fact, they’d seemed ecstatic. He enjoyed making people happy,especiallywomen. But Sara fixed him with a glare that would have slapped down even royalty.
‘I need to sell the parure and I need a job.’
‘If you really want to offload the jewels, they’ll be taken care of today. As for work, you don’t have the right visa, so that poses a problem. But you don’t need a job immediately.’
‘So you expect your fiancée to sit at home and take care of the manor?’
Strangely, that idea suddenly had boundless appeal. Someone there other than staff and the lonely halls, half of which he’d shut down because he didn’t use them. A beautiful, smiling face welcoming him home, with little blonde cherubs running behind her when she opened the door to greet him as he...
An odd warmth ignited in his chest at the thought. He slammed those thoughts into the vault of his imagination.
‘Of course not.’ The damned champagne was addling his brain. He should have stuck to water.
‘Then I need to do something.’
